


Bundle of Jerk

by Transformatron



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Discussion of Abortion, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mech Preg, Morning After, Morning Cuddles, Mpreg, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spike Valve Interfacing, Sticky, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Stupid Sexy Megatron, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 14:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17081894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transformatron/pseuds/Transformatron
Summary: The mighty Megatron returns after three years of absence, having failed to amass his fabled army. He proceeds to destroy the Decepticons' most fecund mine, experiment with Dark Energon, and knock up his Second in Command. Not necessarily in that order.Starscream, understandably, is pissed.





	Bundle of Jerk

**Author's Note:**

> **What's this? A rare shiny fluffy TFP-megastar fic?**
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> **Well. Sort-of. Hopefully enough glints of their toxicity shine through to make the characters believable. Still, this was written for my own amusement. I know some folks in this fandom are very much in the TFP-Megastar-should-only-ever-be-portrayed-as-abusive camp. I'd suggest that you don't read this fic. I'm working on a few others that you might prefer.**
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> ****

The moment Starscream woke up he realized that things had gone awfully, utterly, _abysmally_ wrong. And not just because he was in Megatron's berth. That was practically routine by now – as was the warm, wet ache in his valve, the lingering proof of their... _Fornication_.

But this? This was _worse._

Starscream felt the usual flutter of his spark in his chest, a pulse so constant he rarely needed to think about it. But around it, _beside_ it...

"Oh, _scrap."_

Megatron remained in recharge. Lazy old rustbucket.

The overheads were set to low, light sliding across their plating in oily pools. A vast arm draped over Starscream. It weighed the narrow flier down, crushing a dent of his specifications into the malleable metal sheet of the berth. Megatron’s forearm alone was the breadth and length of Starscream's torso – double that, with the fusion cannon attached.

Once, as a young mechling, freshly fed on the gushing energon-spring of warfare, Starscream had made the mistake of calling that gun _compensatory._ He'd been proved thoroughly, deliriously wrong – and Megatron, always incapable of a graceful victory, had _continued_ to prove him wrong, at regular intervals, for all the eons thereafter.

Well. More like _three yearly_ intervals, as of late. Megatron’s quest for an army had kept him away from Starscream’s berth for far too long. No wonder they'd gotten – ahem. A little carried away.

Starscream began his quest for liberation. He winced at every screech as Megatron's limp, five-ton arm dragged over his plates. He kept checking behind him, fretful lest those demonic-red optics open and his Liege-lord snarl his name.

Nothing. Megatron inhaled, Megatron ex-vented, then he inhaled and ex-vented again. Sleeping like a sparkling.

A _sparkling._ Grah.

One noisy idiot was enough. He had to deal with this problem, _stat._

Salvation lay but a meter away. He just had to _reach_ it. Starscream continued his slow, painful progress, valve stinging with every shift of his legs.

Their duration apart had taken its toll. Callipers had tightened, readjusted, Starscream's slim, lightweight body forgetting Megatron's girth. Last night had served as a brutal reminder. Megatron didn't _intend_ to do him damage. He might deliver a scrapping whenever Starscream disobeyed him (or performed inadequately in the field, or poisoned his energon, or spoke back, or made a passable attempt at separating his helm from his shoulders, or stood too close to him on a bad day). But interface? That was something different. A mutual blowing off of steam.

Quite literal, thanks to the gladiator's outdated ventilation system. Warm vents broke over Starscream's tailerons. Starscream's frame felt full of condensation, slippery beneath his plates.

"Fragging outdated piece of junk," he grumbled. "Brutish, barbarian Philistine. Oversized glitch-head of a -"

A grunt, a mumble. A croak of _Starscream._ Then – curses! – that great arm curled.

Starscream squawked. No, this couldn't be happening! So close. He'd been so close!

Hot breath foamed across his plating, misting on the cold metal of his cheek.

"Are you talking to me?" the Mighty Megatron asked.

He didn't sound all that mighty, at the moment. His voice was as rough as the average asteroid, fritzing to static at the edges of the words. Starscream would hope that this would teach the old aft not to _roar his release_ with every damn overload – but Megatron had been frying his vocals during intercourse for the past two millennia. Why stop now?

"Yes," he hissed, kicking his pedes. The fusion cannon steamrolled him, compressing his chest until his intakes cut short. One wing beat a protest against Megatron's chest; the other lay flush to the bed, pointing down so as not to get trapped beneath them. "Let go of me, you _aft-faced Quintesson-fragger -_ "

"Does that make you the Quintesson?"

"Ugh!" Starscream shoved at his fusion cannon one last time, then flopped down in defeat. If he couldn't win against Megatron in brute strength, he would have to settle for taunting. "Did you plan on getting up to run your army, O Mighty Megatron? Or were you just going to lie here and _snuggle_ all cycle?"

Megatron cracked a yawn. He revolved his jaw around its gyros like he was limbering up to take a bite. Slowly, indomitably, he nuzzled his colossal frame against Starscream's, as close as he could get without crushing his wings. "I believe that is one of the most sensible ideas to ever come from your lying glitch of a mouth."

"No! No, that wasn't what I -" Starscream renewed his thrashing, then, when that had little effect, vindictively gouged claws into Megatron's wrist. "Let me go! I will not be your prisoner!"

"Why? Somewhere else to be?"

“ _Yes,_ for a matter of fact! Believe it or not, my life doesn’t revolve around you!”

Megatron considered it. Starscream could almost _see_ the cogs whirring inside his helm.

This filthy boondocks of a world had been quiet of late. The Autobots were lying low, preserving their resources. They intervened with the Decepticon mining operations only when it was necessary to protect the local insects. (Really, Starscream didn't know why they bothered. In a thousand years, the humans would choke on their own noxious emissions. They would die, with or without the Decepticons’ help.)

While Megatron could get away with lounging about his berth and fragging his Seeker until one or both of them were summoned to the Bridge, the Warlord always lusted after a challenge. If Starscream was plotting to overthrow him, it would certainly liven up the day.

The arm uncurled.

"I trust I shall not regret this decision," Megatron rumbled. A challenge lurked beneath the words. _Silly little Seeker._ _Offline me if you can._

Starscream would've loved to have risen to the occasion. Unfortunately, he had a doctor's appointment.

He scrambled from the berth. He was sure to make his bow deeper than ever, his smirk more sycophantic, as he backed towards the wash racks, Megatron's dried transfluid crusting the backs of his legs.

"Why, Master. Whatever do you think of me?"

"Nothing but the worst, Starscream." Megatron's talons played across the outline of the Seeker in his berth, tracing his sharp silhouette. "Nothing but the worst."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The solvents slathered him helm to pede. Starscream kicked those up, one after the other, to dig his claws into the delicate three-pointed heel, ensuring no trace of this foul planet's loam remained. He wasn't _built_ for walking on a mudball, slaggit.

Once he'd completed that onerous task, he dredged the transfluid from his bruised valve - uncomfortably aware that the majority was locked up in his gestation chamber, ready to start protoformic construction. After that, there was no more putting it off.

He had to see them.

Starscream ensured the solvent shower was loud enough to drown out the click of his parting chest plates. He huddled in the corner of the wash racks, his wings splayed wide, protecting his spark from the torrent.

And the other three, of course, which twirled around his own like planets orbiting the sun.

Great. A Trine. The Iaconian poets claimed there was no sight so beautiful. Starscream just curled his lip plates off his dentae.

"Scrap. Parasites."

"Did you say something?" The big lug must've heard Starscream's vocals, underneath the pound of the shower.

Starscream raised his voice: "I said: _Scrap, I want a flight!_ Perhaps you should _think_ of that before you start pawing at my wings..."

"They've hardly seen damage."

It was true: one bite mark each. Megatron had been remarkably restrained. "Which proves how much _you_ know! You're not a natural-sparked flier-frame. Keep your opinions to yourself."

More grumbling, but no warning whine of a fusion cannon. Megatron must be in a good mood today.

Who knew? Perhaps, if they won this war and settled in as co-rulers of Cybertron, he’d make a good Sire?

But that didn't change the fact that _co-rulers_ would never be enough. Or that Starscream _detested_ sparklings.

There had been times, back on Vos, when he wondered if he'd been born lacking some vital piece of code. His Trine seemed to think that sparklings looked _cute_ , rather than like creepy, deformed adults - and most other Cybertronians shared their opinion.

Gradually, Starscream had come to realized that he wasn't the crazy one. _Everyone else was._

He ground his dentae. He had to keep this from Megatron. The old mech had a sentimental streak as wide as his ridiculous shoulder plates. Who knew? He might _actually want to keep them._

Starscream decisively shut his chest plates. That was one risk he couldn't take.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Knock Out awaited him when he padded into the medbay a joor later, having cleansed himself to his satisfaction, refuelled, and whined until Megatron got off his aft and helped him buff away the scuffs of last night's rigorous copulation.

There'd been a lot of them. It seemed Megatron had been as pent up as Starscream, after three years with nothing but his own servo.

Of course, Starscream had plenty of other bots around. But somehow, the thought of inviting another back to his quarters never appealed. He knew what he liked, and when you were acting-commander of a Warship, it was hard to ask your subordinates to pinch your wings, slap your valve, call you _shareware_ and frag you like it too. Especially if you wanted them to respect you in the morning.

Still, the buffer could do nothing for the perfectly-punched imprints of Megatron's dentae on his wings. Knock Out took one look at Starscream and damn-near _purred._

"Good night, Commander?"

"That is hardly your business."

Knock Out raised an optical ridge. Starscream relented. He'd have to let him know _eventually,_ if he wanted the procedure. Best get the inevitable mockery over with.

He hopped onto the medical pallet – spryly, in his opinion, for a mech who was being ploughed into the berth less than half a solar-cycle ago – and reclined on his fanned wings. "It was... adequate."

The optical ridge climbed higher. " _Just_ adequate?"

Starscream examined his nails. "Tolerable."

"The Air Commander I know wouldn't stay in one berth for _tolerable._ " Knock Out leaned in, dipping a wink. "Admit it. He fragged you stupid."

Starscream would admit to many things, with either the right coercive methods or promise of reward, but being _stupid_ wasn't one of them. His glare told Knock Out as much. "This is hardly professional conduct."

The medic pouted like Starscream had waved an energon cookie under his nose and whipped it away before he could bite. "Indeed. Still, should you wish to share any _unprofessional_ titbits at any point, be my guest."

Starscream rolled his optics. "Just get this over with, already."

Knock Out rose, looking him over. He could don a mantle of maturity, albeit not for long. "I may need a little direction on what ails you, unless you wanted a full-form scan..."

"That won't be necessary." Starscream took a deep ex-vent, then shook his helm. He glowered to one side, not wanting to see the expression on the medic's face, and retracted his chest plates, baring his spark.

And, of course, his new freeloaders.

The silence lasted too long. Starscream risked a peek – only to find Knock Out gawping so wide that his chin brushed his chest plates.

"Oh," said the doctor, weakly. "Well, that's new. Did you want – um. Did you want a health check, or...?"

Starscream couldn't believe he was being this dense. "No, you imbecile. I want you to _get rid of them._ "

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"It's harder than you think," Knock Out said.

"Not just a simple operation," Knock Out said.

"So long as you don't refill your gestation tank," Knock Out said, "the protoform will stop developing and the sparks will merge back into your own of their own accord."

"Which means," Knock Out had insisted on elaborating, as if Starscream couldn't work it out for himself, "no spike-in-valve interface.”

For three. Whole. _Lunar-cycles._

Which was why Starscream was here, now, angrily flying loops around the _Nemesis,_ hoping these unwanted new sparks burst from exertion. _No spike-in-valve interface?_ For _three lunar-cycles?_ After Lord Megatron had just gotten back from a venture that had lasted _three fragging years?_

Who did Knock Out think Starscream was - an Autobot?

Celibacy didn't come naturally to Seekers. Let’s just say that Starscream had gotten very familiar with his electrical prod during Megatron’s sojourn off-world. Its shocks might have enough welly to fry an organic’s brain, but for bots – well.

The tingling was quite stellar, especially around the interface array.

But now Megatron was back, and they shared quarters more often than otherwise. The big mech was always _right there,_ up in Starscream's space, ex-venting hot air on his sensitive winglets, wrapping a big hand around his waist... Heat flared behind Starscream's panel just thinking about it, as he transformed back into bipedal mode and stalked for the flight deck lift.

Megatron might have his flaws - his idiocy, for one, his determination to run the army into the ground, for another, and that stupid bucket-helm for a third. But sometimes, the old fool was simply _too damn sexy for his own good._

How the hell was Starscream supposed to see this through?

He checked his chronometer. Scrap. One thing was for sure: missing the daily officers' meeting wouldn't help matters.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Starscream stormed onto the bridge. He walked without a care for who was in front of him, expecting them to get out of his way.

He had to avoid Megatron. He had to stop being alone with him. Starscream might be proud, might be haughty - but every so often, he could admit his own weaknesses, in the privacy of his helm. And one of them - curse the mech to the pit - was Megatron's spike.

This was going to be a rough three months.

He just had to… think of the sparklings! That was right. Or rather, think about what they’d _do to him_ if he let this continue. There were, after all, some _physical implications_ to consider.

Sparklings cannibalised their carrier's plating to build their own form. To support a trio of gremlins, built from the robotic-material of himself and his so-called good-for-nothing _too impatient for interface-protection_ Lord, Starscream would either have to break his regime of war-rations or quite literally eat himself alive.

All in all? Pass. Not even Megatron's strong, thick thighs, the seam between his gladiatorial armour and the ridged purple sub-plating that always made him quiver when Starscream trailed his claws along it, or that thick, beautiful, mouth-watering, ridged, _perfect_ black spike could make pregnancy worth it. Right?

Stascream _sighed._

"Starscream! So nice of you to show up."

Ugh. There he stood. The glitch-head responsible for all this mess.

Arousal and anger were always tightly interwoven, where Megatron was concerned. Right now, Starscream erred to the latter. He sneered up at his Lord, fists quivering impotent at his sides.

"Master."

His venom must've infiltrated his voice. Megatron quirked a brow, but didn’t make any further comment - not even to scold Starscream for his unauthorized flight! Instead, he launched into a diatribe on how they needed to re-double their efforts to locate and harvest energon. As if their stockpiles hadn’t far exceeded demand, before Megatron ordered them to blow their largest mine.

Starscream loped to a seat by the consoles, lending Megatron half-an-audial. This seat was his favorite, situated beneath a curved wall of screens that showed the surrounding sky. If you ignored the stagnant trail of uncirculated air on your wings, a Seeker with some imagination could convince themselves they were airborne. Starscream amused himself in this fashion, tapping long talons on the keypad, never letting the filed tips land hard enough to activate the buttons.

He tuned out Megatron's drivel. Something-something-new-deposits-something-something-scanners-something. The bulk of his concentration centred on his chest. And, of course, what it contained.

Starscream found his mind drifting back, back, almost against his will. Spiralling through his memory core, falling through the eons, back to the early days of Vos. To his own Trine: the three of them tussling, tumbling, bickering their way through sparklinghood, adolescence, beyond.

Seekers were born in threes. But war was cruel, and brothers fell all-too-easily. As far as Starscream knew, he was the last of his kind – excepting the cold-construct eradicons, which hardly counted. They would never replace his Trine. Nothing ever would.

Another recollection, colder than the last. Skywarp had wanted sparklings, one day. He’d never gotten the chance.

“Starscream!”

Starscream jerked to attention. He found the combined population of the bridge, officers and eradicons alike, staring at him like he’d gone into labor there and then. Megatron stood on the elevated mezzanine, scowling at Starscream over one huge spiked shoulder.

The atmosphere turned rapidly gelid, icier than this planet's poles. Starscream’s wings trembled. The resulted clinks echoed, loud in the petrified room.

“I – yes, my Lord?”

Megatron rolled his optics. “I shall repeat my question only once. Perhaps this time you would be so generous as to grant me an answer?”

Starscream fought down his scowl. The cursed bitlets were already messing with his processor. “Yes, my Lord.”

Megatron ordered him to report on the locations and statuses of each of their mines. Starscream obeyed with due, if somewhat sulky, diligence.

Megatron had no right to get his tanks in a twist over his wandering processor. If _someone_ hadn’t put him in this mortifying predicament, he’d be able to concentrate, wouldn’t he?

So really, it was quite unfair when Megatron called for a break and dismissed the crew, with Starscream’s exception. Doubtless, he intended to chastise him further in private.

Starscream waited for the last vehicon to vacate the premises, followed by one of Soundwave's creepy feelers. He remained seated, gnawing on the soft mesh that lined his cheek.

“My Lord,” he began, once the door had gushed shut. “I must apologize for my diverted attentions…”

“I see your wings have been mended.”

“Ah.” Starscream flicked them. It was true; they were once again unblemished, pristene, nary a bite-mark to be seen. Knock Out had given Starscream a thorough work-over – if of a rather different nature to that Megatron had bestowed upon him the night before. “Y-yes. I am functional. Should you wish for me to scout any of the mines on our list –“

“Was I too rough?”

Starscream’s vocalizer almost fritzed. “I – uh – what?”

Megatron glowered at the screens, the facsimile of a broad blue sky. His claws clasped behind his curvaceous, infuriatingly gorgeous back. “It has been some time, Starscream. I found myself… more eager than I expected. Know that last night was not intended as punishment.”

Starscream had expected many things. For Megatron to accuse him of neglecting his post, or being unworthy of the titles and responsibilities granted to him in his absence. He hadn’t expected an apology (or at least, the closest the old fool was capable of).

“Good to know?”

“I would not,” continued Megatron, “desire for either of us to have _regrets._ I expect us to operate as a functional unit, Starscream." His optics bored into Starscream over his shoulder spikes, stern as the Prime he loathed. "That means we must trust one another. Whether or not that trust extends to berth-time activities is your choice.”

This just kept getting weirder and weirder. “Regrets, my lord?”

Megatron turned to face him fully. Beneath the usual disapproval on his faceplates, there was something else, something Starscream didn’t want to interrogate too deeply. It looked very almost like concern.

They were high-ranking Decepticons – Commanders of the Army! They couldn’t have that.

“I see little other reason for you to be so pensive. You usually challenge my ideas at least eight times during the preliminary briefings.”

“You keep count?”

“Today, you barely managed one affront to my orders. It is most out-of-character. Normally, I would presume that your processor was engaged in another of your plots…”

Starscream’s gaze flicked from side to side, nervous as a cornered turbofox. “Plots? I – my Master, I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“But as I pondered your tardiness this morning, Soundwave played a surveillance video of you reporting to the medbay. And spending a considerable duration there, before your joy-flight.” Megatron leaned forwards, looming like a scene from a nightmare. His perturbed red eyes didn’t quite match the rest of him. “Did I injure you during copulation?”

Starscream’s mouth dropped open. Indeed, his valve still twinged – another good reason to remain seated. But it was a sweet burn, warm burn. A reminder, a physical stamp of Megatron’s intrusion inside him.

Starscream was a little disconcerted by how much he liked it.

“No more than I, ahem, wanted? My Lord?”

Megatron sighed, but Starscream's assurance at least wiped that worried expression of his faceplates. “You must be more careful. We each have our duties. Pleasure must not get in the way of our purpose, no matter how much you enjoy rough handling.”

Megatron was lecturing _him_ on the importance of the Decepticon cause? If only he knew how imperilled the cause was, thanks to the new life swimming around Starscream’s spark! Thank flark he planned on letting the bitlets terminate.

Starscream conjured one of his favorite smirks. He rose to his pedes, wings flaring to either side, making him look larger than he was. “I am less fragile than you think.”

Megatron’s gaze bore the first kindling sparks of arousal. He leered, looking Starscream up and down, from his high wing tips and his slim waist to those pointed, pretty pedes. “Indeed. Your ability to take punishment almost matches your drive to earn it.”

Starscream couldn’t let this escalate. It wouldn’t be the first time Megatron had fragged him during one of their private soirees, then had him close his panel over the mess while he recalled the troops to their posts and concluded the day’s briefings. Usually, Starscream was all for it – but not today. Not with the newsparks flitting about his chest, and his gestation chamber hungry for more.

Rather than rising to the backhanded compliment (and instigating a heated match of jibes and ripostes that would end in him being pushed face-first over the nearest console) he sunk on his chair, glancing away. His wings lowered. Megatron didn’t need any knowledge of Vosian wingspeak to recognise the dismissal.

A frown curled across his faceplates. “I –“ he started. Then stopped. He turned and retreated several paces, returming to his usual vantage, overlooking the bridge. “Soundwave,” he said, addressing his comm. “You may return.”

Starscream chewed his cheek again. He resumed the tap of his claws on the keypad, faster now, until Megatron lost patience and ordered him to desist. He spent the rest of the briefing in silence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Megatron commed him that night. “My quarters. High grade.”

Four words. One implicit order. _Come._

But Megatron had always made it clear that in certain matters, interface included, Starscream was permitted to refuse him without repercussion. And so, spark throbbing high in his chest, Starscream put his autonomy to use.

He dismissed the comm.

Megatron didn’t try again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

His affections towards his Master had always been protean, liable to change. He hoped that Megatron would simply take the snub at face value and leave him in peace.

Unfortunately, Megatron could never do things the _easy way._ He seemed to have gotten it into his helm that Starscream was angry with him. That would’ve been tolerable – if only Megatron made their presumed resentment mutual. Then they could’ve simmered away for a vorn before tensions escalated past rupture point, and one grabbed the other and initiated some frenzied reconciliation.

Make-up sex was quite the thrill. Over the centuries, Megatron and Starscream had become experts on it.

But no. Rather than returning Starscream’s cold shoulder, the Warlord made it his mission to _find out what was wrong_ and _fix it._ And, as this whole mess had spawned from Starscream’s little visit to Knock Out, it was there that he started his quest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A joor later saw Megatron outside Starscream’s quarters, putting his captainly overrides to use. Next moment, he was _in_ Starscream’s quarters: a bristling behemoth of a mech, his pauldrons scraping the ceiling, claw thrust at Starscream’s face.

“Sparklings?” he bellowed. “ _Sparklings?_ ”

Starscream overcame his shock. This was quite the feat. Megatron’s unannounced entry had onlined his battle and flight protocols simultaneously. He had leapt a solid ten metres upwards, bashed his wings on the ceiling, activated his internal weaponry and spun with full intent to shoot the intruder, all in under a klick. Now, ex-venting harshly, he lowered his offensive and let the metal plating fold back across his arms.

“Yes,” he snapped. “Took you long enough to catch up.”

The finger in his face shook. “Sparklings,” Megatron repeated, only now his tone wasn't so furious. It sounded more like he’d just been informed he had terminal rust.

Starscream empathized. “I _know._ ”

“Mine?”

“Unfortunately.”

Megatron shook his helm. The finger retracted. He stepped back, out of Starscream's personal space, the better to regain some of that inimitable, leaderly composure. “We can’t have sparklings, Starscream," he said, gravely. "We’re at war.”

Starscream glared. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Why else would you hide them from me, if it wasn’t for fear that I would order their termination?” Megatron lowered his voice. “You know what they say about Seekers and their Carrier-instincts…”

Starscream _did_ shoot him then. But only lightly. Just enough to make a point.

Later, as Megatron was rubbing the singe on his chest plate with one hand and slowly loosening his grip on Starscream’s throat with the other, he managed to choke out: “You’ll be glad to know that Golden Age propaganda about my frame-type is as much slag as you’re speaking right now!”

Mostly true. Sort of. Skywarp _had_ cultivated a fondness for the little blighters, and though Thundercracker had been of a more stoic disposition, even he couldn’t banish the smile from his faceplates when tiny Seekers toddled by, wobbling on pinprick heels...

Starscream ground his dentae. His Trine had been idiots, that was all. Perhaps Starscream would've tolerated _their_ sparklings, if either had managed to spawn before their offlining. So long as the little monsters didn't inherent Skywarp's gifts.

But there was no sense mooning over the past. Next moment, Megatron released him. He assessed Starscream from on high as the Seeker dropped, knees hitting the floor with a clang

“You… don’t want the sparklings?”

Starscream focused on massaging his neck cabling back into shape. “Of course not!”

“Then why…” Megatron gestured between them, letting the unspoken remain that way.

Starscream _snarled._ “Because, our dear medic insisted that the pair of us not consummate anything for all of _three Lunar cycles._ ”

Megatron absorbed that. Then slowly, he began to smile. “And you couldn’t keep your servos off me.”

Oh no. Starscream couldn't let him believe _that._ He'd be insufferable! “What? No! It’s the other way around, you frag-happy oversexed gigolo-bot –“

“Starscream.” Megatron was grinning in earnest now. “I did not think you so traditional.”

That cut Starscream off. “Eh?”

“There are plenty of ways to interface. Not all of them involve my spike and your valve.”

Starscream snapped his open mouth shut. A perverse thrill swam down his spinal struts. Oh... _yes._ He supposed he could resign himself to a few weeks of oral. It was better than the electric prod.

Although perhaps the prod would be just as stimulating, if it was wielded by a servo far larger than his own, crushed crackling to his clit-node as he writhed through one overload after the next…

His knees, subtly, began to rub. His cooling fans clicked on low. “You… you’re serious?”

Megatron nodded. “In fact, let me prove to you how much. Right now.”

That buzz of warmth in Starscream’s back struts sunk deep and pulsed. He could feel himself slickening. He lowered his eyelids, dimming his optics to a sultry glow.

Oh, yes. This was happening. It’d only been a day since their last interface, but Starscream had been psyching himself up for a long dry-period. His relief only added to his anticipation.

“Mm. And how would my Master have me?”

Megatron stroked his chin. He studied Starscream: that predatory, calculated gaze that Starscream imagined him using as he sized up his next opponent in the arenas of Old Kaon. “Bent over,” he decreed. “There. Pedes on the floor, aft up. Present yourself over the edge of your berth.”

Starscream’s confidence faltered. That position was a favorite – it gave his wings better freedom of movement. But still…

“You said you _weren’t_ going to put it in my valve!”

Megatron blinked. “You have an aft-port, don’t you?”

Starscream, for what felt like the billionth time that cycle, was left speechless. The clenching heat in his core sweltered up to shine from his faceplates. “I – uh –“

“As do I,” said Megatron, musingly. Usually, their size different meant that switching was a dull experience for both, but… Well. That might level the playing field, so-to-speak. “Hm. Maybe tomorrow. For now…” Those big fingers tapped Starscream’s panel, which hugged his valve (by now filmed with a healthy shimmer of lubricants) and his sinfully tight pinch of an aft. “Open up.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You’re _sure_ you don’t want sparklings?” Starscream gasped – moaned, more accurately – as Megatron fed the third claw into his aft, dripping with warm oil.

The internal pressure was delicious. Frag, he’d forgotten how much he’d enjoyed this, his valve sensors stimulated by the crush and squeeze of his internal walls. It was a wicked torment, maddening. It left his wings twitching erratically and his valve irising wetly on nothing, silver snakes of lubricant drooling down his thighs.

Megatron snorted. “Do I seem like a family mech?”

“N-no, My Lord, but –“

“Even if this war ended,” Megatron continued, teasing Starscream wider, his pressurized spike bumping between Starscream’s legs from behind, “I wouldn’t have you birth my sparklings. You’d be a terrible Carrier.”

Starscream harrumphed. It was no less than what he'd been telling himself for the past however-many joors it’d been since he and Knock Out had their talk – but it was still an insult. He resented the words on principal.

“Why you! I would _not!_ ”

“You’re flighty,” Megatron continued, scissoring at the mesh. Oil turned Starsceam’s aft to a slick, hot, clenching channel, perfect for the fragging. “Highly-strung, prone to violence.”

“Look who’s talking!”

“You have less patience than the average scraplet, and…” Those three digits, so much _huger_ when they were preparing a part of Starscream’s frame that had never been designed for penetration, hooked deep. Starscream’s cooling fans spluttered, losing their even cycle. “An aversion to caring about anyone but yourself. You’d drop the creatures on their heads if they bit you while feeding.”

“I wouldn’t,” Starscream insisted. He didn’t sound all that convincing, even to his own audials.

Admittedly, that might have something to do with the hand working away between his legs. Those same legs would've given out entirely, had Megatron not grabbed his hip, grinding his knuckles against Starscream’s puffy, slick-soft rim.

“In the rare event that you and I change our minds on the subject of procreation after we win this war, I will be Carrier, you the Sire.” His claws thrust back and forwards, frictionless, greased, perfect. Starscream had a snappy response, but it got lost under his whine. “Far less chance for you to frag it up.”

Pits, no. Megatron's mood swings were awful at the worst of times. "Adopt," Starscream hissed, through clenched teeth. "We can always a-a-adopt. Preferably a mech who's old enough to wipe its own aft - oh Primus! Megatron!"

"What was that about an aft?" asked Megatron, devilish as ever, as he did _that thing_ again.

Starscream's wings flapped; his valve fluttered. His pedes skidded wider, opening himself to the intrusion. His vocalizer stuttered, glitching around Megatron's name.

"Oh - oh - M-m-mega _-troooooon_..."

"And think," said Megatron, revolving his hand, thumb drawing circles over the anterior node of Starscream's valve, stirring the Seeker to a gooey, shaking mess. "If we had sparklings to take care of, we wouldn't be able to frag every night."

That sounded like _torture._ Almost as cruel as what Megatron was currently subjecting him to. Starscream, wordless, tilted his hips. His wings trembled. His heels dug into the floor. A plea, a silent demand.

Megatron pulled out his fingers (accompanied by a low, choked whimper, which left Starscream's vocalizer without his consent). He palmed the backside he'd been presented, admiring the loosened, shiny ring and the threads of lubricant that slid from the valve below. Starscream knew from the purr of his engines that he liked the picture.

"No," said his Lord and Master, as he kissed the blunt tip of his spike against Starscream's twitching, sensitized hole. "I think this is for the best."

 

**Author's Note:**

> **I got some lovely comments on my Knock Out/Starscream twink-off fic (which you should totally check out if you haven't already!) and it convinced me to write more smut. You're welcome. As ever, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!**


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